Rising Panic
by MBP
Summary: In a combination of book/film events, this is Hermione and Ron's missing moment between the shock of Fred and Harry's departure to the forest. It continues to capture other moments between pairs of characters post-Battle/pre-Epilogue.
1. When the Sun Goes Down

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I sadly never will._**

**_A/N: Ok, I really wanted to start writing again, and I'm hoping this one-shot, after seeing DH 2 last night, will get my juices flowing again. This is sort of a combination of the events from the book and the film, so if you haven't seen it yet, and you're confused by the minor changes, that's what they're from. Don't read if you want to see the film first. And let me know, I guess, if you think I should continue it or just leave it as is..._**

Hermione is more terrified than she's ever been in her life - and at this point, that's saying a lot. She's sitting in the Great Hall with the Weasleys, and she's trying to stop her own shaking. One way to do that, she knows, is to not look at Fred. She can't look at Fred. If she does, then Molly will want to help her, and that should be the least of her concerns right now. Molly Weasley has other people who need her help more than Hermione Granger, and she should be free to help them. Besides, Hermione knows her fear right now is bigger, even, than this. She wonders, with a small, distant part of her brain, if maybe she's allowing this fear to overtake her because she doesn't want to deal with the grief, and that could be part of it. But the bigger part of her brain knows something else - she doesn't know where Harry is right now, and she doesn't like that. She doesn't like that at all.

She wants to look at Ron, wondering if he's even aware of Harry's absence, but she's suddenly not sure how to do that. As much as she wishes she could, she can't erase the image of him crashing to his knees beside Fred's still, lifeless body and bursting into tears. She'd tried to look away, but she'd stared, horrifed, as Molly ran her hand over his hair She'd never seen Ron like that before, and until a few moments ago, she'd have said they've been through everything together. But they haven't, and nothing could be clearer right now. In the face of his overwhelming grief, not only does she not know how to help him, but she doesn't even know if he wants her to.

She swallows hard. As much as she dreads this, she does have to talk to him. She can't keep sitting here not knowing where Harry is. Slowly, she turns to where Ron is sitting with George. And almost instantly his head comes up, and his eyes meet hers. She notices with a pang that even though his eyes are bloodshot, they are also pleading. And Hermione knows what she hadn't before. He does want her help. He's asking right now. She blinks quickly and reaches her hand out to him. He grips it tightly and tries to smile, but his chin is trembling too much.

Hardly realizing what she's doing, Hermione tugs at his hand and he's surprisingly unresisting as she pulls him to his feet and even - reluctantly on her part - away from his family. No one says a word, though, and they wend their way through the solemn crowd, neither of them looking closely enough to see who they're passing. That would be too much right now.

Neither of them speaks until they're out of the Great Hall, and they're on the crumbling staircase when Hermione finally stops moving. She turns to Ron then. Before she will allow herself to give into her fear about Harry, she has another type of fear to overcome. She does the one thing she knows she must and hopes it's the right thing. She puts her arms around Ron for the first time since - well, since the world as they knew it came crashing down. At first, Ron hardly responds; his arms encircle her waist, but it almost seems instinctive... until Hermione realizes that his breathing has become labored, and his grip is tightening. She holds onto him more firmly, and then, almost before she's aware of what's happening, he is shaking against her, and his sobs echo in her ear as she barely makes out the words, "Fred, not Fred..."

There is a lump in her throat the size of a boulder, and she closes her eyes as the tears trickle down her own face and drop onto his shoulder. It is a long time before either of them is calm enough to let go of the other, and once they do, they are both surprised to find that there is no awkwardness, no embarrassment. They simply wipe their eyes, and then Hermione feels a chill as she realizes that she is still going to make things worse.

"Ron," she says and is distantly, pleasantly surprised when her voice doesn't tremble, "Harry - Harry's been gone an awfully long time..."

Ron looks at her for a moment, and his face drains of any color that was left in it. "You don't... you don't think," he mumbles, and now Hermione's heart aches because his voice isn't steady at all. It's shaking, and he's trying to make it steady, but he's failing miserably. She reaches out again and presses his fingers tightly, and he lets out a deep breath and is marginally calmer. He looks at her and swallows, manages to whisper, "you don't think he went to the forest..."


	2. Fall Upon Me

_A/N: So I can't get them out of my head again. I think this will probably be a few more chapters, taking one person from each chapter and dealing with him or her in another paired situation. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out the next since we've already had Hermione and Ron and Ron and Harry... :)_

Harry isn't dead. Harry isn't dead, and Voldemort's been vanquished, and there is finally no one to fight, nothing to worry about, nowhere to run. And Ron wants to be happy. Ron wants so desperately to be happy about this. On some level, he knows he's relieved. Intellectually, at least, he knows that. But emotionally... he shakes his head. Why is he even thinking this way, he wonders as he stares at the canopy of his four poster bed. He's the one with the emotional range of a teaspoon, after all. He doesn't even have feelings, let alone understand them. But he sighs. That's not true. It's never been true. Now, though, he's hardly the only one who knows it.

It's strange to be back in his bed in the Gryffindor tower. He wonders if the others are sleeping but thinks they probably aren't. He's far from the only one with a lot on his mind. After a few more minutes of tossing and turning, he realizes that he isn't falling asleep - not anytime soon, at least - and he shoves the canopy aside. He can't just lie there any longer. He'll sit in the common room. Staring into the fire always makes him drowsy. He just hopes he can be alone. The last thing he wants right now is another conversation. He really doesn't have anything to say.

He tries to make his way soundlessly out of the room, but even though he doesn't hear another sound, he doesn't think either Harry or Neville is asleep. It's _too _quiet. He shakes his head. He can't blame them.

It's a relief to find the room empty, and Ron sinks onto the overstuffed couch, pulls his knees up to his chest, and pillows his head on his arms as he stares into the crackling flames. It's one of the things he's always loved about being at school. No matter the season, the fire is always burning in the common room. It signifies home, and that's something he sorely needs right now. He sighs and closes his eyes. Home... this one is ok. The other one... no. He can't even think about the Burrow right now without chills coursing through him.

But ... he hears footsteps. He tenses, makes sure he is facing the fire. He doesn't have to turn around to know that Harry is standing at the foot of the stairs. They've spent too much time together not to know the sounds of each other's breathing. But, suddenly, he's not sure whether he wants Harry there or not, and he doesn't even understand why.

There isn't much time to think about it. Only moments later, Harry is approaching the couch tentatively and sitting on the far end. He doesn't look at Ron as he, too, stares into the fire as if mesmerized by the flames. For a long time, neither of them speaks. In fact, Ron's eyes are starting to feel heavy when he suddenly becomes aware that Harry's breathing's changed. He looks up for the first time. Harry isn't looking at him, still, but Ron knows he's trying to gather the strength to speak. He waits.

"I apologized to Hermione and Ginny." The words are almost inaudible, but he knows he's heard him correctly, and now he's confused. Harry is still staring at the fire, but he seems to know that Ron is watching him because he shifts uncomfortably on the couch. He still won't turn his head, but he says just as softly, "I - I spoke to them earlier. Both of them. And - and I know it wasn't really fair of me to just go to the forest without saying anything about it. I know Hermione and Ginny were upset, and I just wanted to make sure you knew I apologized to them."

Ron nods slowly, knowing it's what Harry expects from him, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry relax slightly. Suddenly, he is furious.

"No," he says, his voice a lot louder than either of them expects. Harry jumps. Ron looks directly at him for the first time since he came down, and he's glowering. It's Harry's turn to look confused.

"No... what?" he asks. "I did. I thought you'd be glad to know that..." but here he trails off because if one thing is abundantly clear, it's that Ron isn't glad about _anything_ right now, but Harry can't figure out why. Ron is hardly sure himself. He just knows he'd very much like to hit Harry, and he clenches his fists in his lap.

"You apologized to _them_. _They_ were the only ones who would be upset about you going into the forest without saying anything? No one _else_?" Ron's face is flushing because he knows he sounds like a girl. He knows that if any of his brothers were here right now, they'd be taking the mickey out of him mercilessly for behaving this way, but the words have spilled out. There's no way to take them back. So he sits, and he stares at Harry, and he hopes he won't notice that his eyes are stinging.

Harry stares back, and he feels as though Ron _has _hit him because the wind is knocked out of him. He draws a breath to respond but lets it out, unable to formulate any words. He wants to look away - Ron's eyes are too bright - but he knows he can't do that either. Finally, he whispers, "I'm - I'm sorry. I don't know why... I didn't think you..."

Ron swallows hard. "You didn't think I'd be terrified, too?" he grates out. His voice is hoarse, much too hoarse, but he's committed himself to this now. He shakes his head even as he tries to stop his hands from shaking. "Harry, you left right - right after Fred -" and suddenly his voice breaks. He can't continue even though he wants to, and he puts his face in his arms. For a moment, he closes his eyes, but then he manages to say, "I'd just lost one brother, and then you... you..."

He trails off. He can't say anymore, but he knows from the sound of Harry's own breathing that he's said enough. After a few minutes, he raises his head, and he sees that Harry's hidden his own face in his hands and that his shoulders are trembling. Ron's stomach twists. This - this is the first time he's seen Harry cry. He wishes briefly, desperately, for Hermione, but he knows that's futile, that this is up to him. Slowly, he moves down the couch, and he puts an arm tentatively across Harry's shoulders.

"I know - I do know why you had to do that," he whispers. "I was just - I was scared. Harry, if we'd lost you, too..." He trails off. He can't even think about it. The few minutes when he'd thought that was real were some of the most terrifying and devastating of his life.

Harry can't let himself think about it either. He takes deep breaths and tries mightily to stop the tears that he's so unaccustomed to. It is a little while before he can remove his hands from his face. He swipes hastily at his eyes before glancing at Ron. He knows their faces are equally red.

"I know," he almost whispers. "If there'd been any other way... but if I'd said goodbye to the three of you, I'd never have been able to go, and..."

Ron swallows hard, but he nods even as he moves back to his designated couch cushion and sinks in, sighing. "Yeah, you had to. But I'm - I'm just glad you're here."

Harry looks back into the fire. "So am I," he says hoarsely. And he hopes someday he'll really mean it.


	3. Never Going Back Again

_**A/N: I actually hadn't planned on this being Hermione and Harry, but then whispered touches mentioned wanting to see them in your review, so here you are. I hope it satisfies. Ginny might get her turn next. I'd think the events of this day are obvious even if they aren't explicitly stated...**_

Physical labor is the only thing that's making him feel less hopeless these days. Harry knows his wand is in his back pocket, but he ignores it as he walks back and forth from the tool shed to the garden, carrying chairs and settling them into rows. All he has to do is not think about what he's putting them there for.

Ron watches from the kitchen window, a pained look on his face. He shakes his head, and Hermione, who enters the kitchen at precisely that moment, asks, "What's wrong?" Ron glances at her over his shoulder and then gestures with his chin to where Harry is sweating and scowling and pulling yet more chairs across the yard, disrupting and angering a few gnomes in the process.

Hermione sighs. She knows why Harry is doing this, and she's pretty sure Ron does, too, but Ron just turns and walks back up the stairs. She looks after him pensively. She knows he's also worried about Harry, but that's the least of his concerns right now, and she can't blame him. But she can't ignore Harry's pain either, and right now, she's the only one who won't. Bundling her hair into a ponytail, she walks out the back door of the Burrow and across the lawn to where Harry's in the tool shed for the 13th time that morning.

When he walks back out and sees her, he nods briefly but walks pointedly past her and continues his mindless trek across the grass. He doesn't want her disrupting his rhythm now even though he knows that's really not a problem. It's not like anyone's assigned this job to him. In fact, if Arthur or Molly were capable of paying any attention to him this morning, he knows he'd be taken to task for needlessly spending this much time and energy. But they aren't. And his stomach twists unpleasantly when he remembers why. He moves even faster, ignoring the sweat that occasionally rolls into his eyes.

Hermione waits at the shed for him to return, and once he does, she grabs chairs with him and follows him across the grass this time. She doesn't speak - not yet - but she notices how stiff his shoulders are and wonders what it is she can say. She's not the right person for this conversation - she's sure he'd rather talk to Ginny - but she's all he's got at the moment, and she knows she owes it to him to at least try. Finally, on their second trip across the lawn, she takes a deep breath.

"No magic?" she asks lamely, silently cursing herself for not coming up with a better conversation starter. But Harry doesn't even look at her, merely shakes his head as he settles the chairs and turns to go get more. Hermione tries not to roll her eyes. She knows Harry can get into some foul moods - she's been there for a lot of them - but even then, he's more apt to shout than to stay silent. Her breath huffs out as she trudges across the lawn again. But since he wouldn't answer the first question with more than a quick head shake, she knows she needs more than a yes/no follow up.

"Why not?" she asks, and this time, his feet slow, but after a moment, he shrugs, says through tight lips, "I wanted to do it myself."

"You're doing it yourself if you do it with your wand," she points out sensibly. "And besides, it's not like you don't always use your wand for these sorts of things ..." but here she trails off. Because suddenly, she's forcefully reminded of the last time he didn't want to use magic... when Dobby died... and from the way he's stiffened, she knows he's remembering, too. After standing stock still for a moment, he shakes himself and walks into the shed. But instead of following him in and picking up more chairs, Hermione follows him in and shuts the door behind her with a bang. He turns in surprise, but then he glares at her.

"Open the door," he says in a low voice, already hefting two more chairs, but she shakes her head.

"Harry, we need to talk..."

But he shakes his own head impatiently. "No. We don't. There's nothing to say."

She tries not to roll her eyes. "There's too _much_ to say," she points out in that annoying all-knowing way of hers. And he rolls _his _eyes but drops the chairs. He knows he's not getting out of there until Hermione at least has her say. He'll let her do that, but he has no intention of saying anything in response. There's nothing to say.

But she waits. And waits. And as the silence unspools between them, Harry finds himself fidgeting. She's waiting for him to say something. That much is clear. But he's not sure what she wants to hear, and he's pretty sure whatever he's thinking is nowhere near the top of her list. But as she continues to wait, he realizes he might as well throw caution to the wind. He wants out of this shed, and if that means he has to give her something, fine. But she won't like it.

Turning his back on her, he starts picking up Arthur's spark plugs, and he mutters, "I shouldn't have come back."

Hermione's almost not sure she's heard him correctly. _Come back from where_, she wonders. She is about to ask when suddenly her breath catches in her throat. Because she knows. And she feels as though he's poured icy water down the back of her jumper.

"How... how can you _say_ that?" she demands, her voice shaking in spite of her efforts to keep it steady. But he won't look at her now, and she stares at the top of his head as she repeats, "_how can you say that?_"

He stares at the chair in his hand. It's obvious, isn't it? Sure, he sacrificed himself - but he got to come back. Lupin and Tonks didn't. Colin Creevey didn't. Fred ... Fred didn't. But this last thought causes his own breath to quicken. He blinks quickly. No. He won't let this happen now. He _cannot _let this happen now.

He waits until he's pretty sure he's gotten himself under control, and he glances up at her mulishly, muttering, "You asked. Now, can I please finish putting these chairs out there."

It's not a question, and it's clear he expects her to fall back from the door, but he forgot he was dealing with Hermione Granger. Suddenly, she is holding the chairs, and he's empty handed. He stares bemusedly at his own hands for a moment, but then anger surges through him, and he glares up at her. She's pale, and she's trembling, but she's glaring at him, too.

"Don't you dare." Her voice is low and almost threatening, and it's enough to quell his rage almost before it has a chance to begin. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and he slumps against the shelf behind him. He reaches up under his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, and, if he's being honest, to hide from Hermione. Because once the anger is gone, he knows that the last thing he wants is to have this conversation he's inadvertently started.

But Hermione is still angry, and now she's also terrified.

"You can't mean that," she says slowly. She swallows hard, but Harry is still not looking at her, and she carefully puts down the chairs before taking a step closer to him. She's not planning on touching him, but she wants to make sure he doesn't miss a word she's about to say. "Yes, you got to come back," she says, her voice wobbling. "Do you really think anyone would be better off if you hadn't? Do you think it would make the others' deaths more meaningful? Or do you think maybe it would've made things that much worse for the rest of us? And besides, if you hadn't... come back... they'd have won. They'd have _won_, Harry. How can you not realize that?"

And he does. He does realize that. But he's tired. And he's scared. She's not the only one who's scared. He actually walked into the forest to _die_. And the more he has time to think about that, the scarier it is. He's only 17. Why was _he_ the one to save the world? It's not the first time he's had these pathetic, _why me _type of thoughts, but he's never had them with this kind of frequency and anguish before. He's so wrapped up in his misery, though, that it takes him a minute before he realizes that Hermione's stopped talking and stopped moving toward him. And then he also realizes, to his horror, that he's been mumbling, that he's actually been _saying _all of these things. Out loud. To someone he knows will never forget any of it.

Slowly, he raises his head to look at her. He's dreading what he might find in her eyes. Revulsion? Pity? Disappointment? He wouldn't begrudge her any of it. But he forgot he was dealing with Hermione Granger. Her eyes are full of tears, and her chin is trembling, and then she's doing exactly what she'd promised herself she wouldn't and what he'd fervently _hoped _she wouldn't, and she's wrapping her arms around him tightly. It's not the first time she's hugged him like this, but it has the same effect it had the few other times and that he wishes it wouldn't. He closes his eyes tightly, trying to forbid the tears, but he feels the sobs bunching in his chest, and he tries to breathe deeply, but that's always his biggest mistake. His breath hitches, and then it's over. He buries his face in her shoulder and abandons himself to the tears he can no longer control and that, he's ashamed to admit, no longer surprise her. Her grip tightens even as she starts to cry, too.

"I'm sorry," she whispers helplessly. It's a long time before he's able to respond, and when he's finally calm enough, he lets go of her and stumbles away, rubbing his sleeve under his nose.

"It's all right," he mumbles thickly. His voice is still clogged, and he can't look at her now. If he looks at her, he'll never be able to pull himself together. And they still have to face today...


	4. Now You Know

_**A/N: This might seem unfinished, but I'm starting to learn the lesson about when less is more. There will be more chapters, though, so there will be more in that sense. Please let me know what you think! (And Fi, this one's for you. Thanks.)**_

Ron slumps into the armchair and yawns hugely. He wonders if he's ever felt this tired before. He thinks back - back? it's been a week, but it feels like so much longer - to right after the battle. He had to have been exhausted then. But now, thinking of how he can hardly move a muscle, he doesn't think that even compares. That was physical exhaustion more than anything. This - this is something else entirely.

His eyes are half closed as he observes the rest of his family. George is sitting with Percy on the couch. Neither one is talking, but George's eyes, even though they're still tinged with red, have lost some of the haunted look they've been carrying for the past week. The lines around his mouth are still there, though, and Ron realizes Percy has noticed this too because he's trying to make jokes to see if he can get George to crack even a tiny smile. It's not really working, but Ron thinks George might appreciate it because now he's resting his elbow on Percy's shoulder.

Bill and Fleur sit together on the other couch, and Charlie is curled on the floor in the corner closest to them. Bill's eyes are closed, and his head is back, but Ron knows he's not sleeping. He's too still, too tense, and Fleur is running her hand through his hair, trying to soothe him. All he wants, Ron is _sure, _is to not be in the Burrow. He knows that in his mind, Bill is in Shell Cottage, alone with Fleur, and he knows that Charlie knows it, too. Charlie, who's glancing over at them with something Ron can only understand as desperation but also acceptance. He knows, without quite knowing how, that Charlie wishes he could stay with them, but he also recognizes Bill's need for the solitude right now. It's pretty impossible to miss.

Harry isn't there anymore. He's gone upstairs; he wants to sleep, and he knows that if he and Ron try to go to bed at the same time, the odds of either of them actually falling asleep are minimal, so he thought he'd try to maximize their chances. Ron hopes he's successful. While he can't imagine how he'll fall asleep tonight, he figures one of them ought to. And as he's thinking he should go up as well, that he might even give it a try, Hermione comes back from helping Molly in the kitchen and perches on the arm of his chair. Before she can say anything to him, though, Molly and Arthur appear in the doorway.

"We're going up to bed now. You all should do that soon, too," Molly says. Her voice is soft; it's lost its commanding timbre, and Ron swallows hard. She doesn't sound like Mum, and he's not quite sure how to handle that. He nods, though, and so do his siblings because without another word, their parents ascend the stairs. That's when Hermione leans close, her hair brushing his neck, and whispers, "don't you want to go, too?"

He looks at her and tries to smile. She knows him so much better than he'd ever have given her credit for before, and he can't think of anything he appreciates more right now. He pushes himself out of the chair and takes her hand, ignoring his siblings as he pulls her along after him. They get to Ginny's room first, and Ron suddenly realizes that he hasn't seen his sister in hours. He looks at the door and then at Hermione, and he realizes that she looks nervous. He doesn't blame her.

"Just... lay down and go to sleep," he suggests weakly, and she shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

"If only it were that simple, Ronald," she sighs, and Ron has to acknowledge the truth in that. He nods but draws her into a hug before she can say another word. It isn't simple at all, but he doesn't want to think about that right now. After a moment, he lets go of her, and before she's even opened the door wide enough to walk inside, he's already taking the stairs three at a time, trying to get away before he can catch a glimpse of Ginny. That... is something he is absolutely ill equipped to handle.

But sleep won't come. He lies there, and he listens to Harry tossing and turning, muttering snatches of conversations Ron knows he never wants to hear, and he can't relax. He also can't get images out of his own head, images he wishes _he'd_ never had to see. It's an hour, though, before he completely gives up and sits up. He stares into the darkness for a moment before climbing out of bed and around Harry's camp bed. Grabbing his wand, he leaves the room, taking care not to step on the groaning floorboards. It's one thing if he can't sleep. If Harry somehow can, Ron won't be the one to ruin it - no matter how restless it might be. Any sleep is better than no sleep these days.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Ron stands in the kitchen for a moment, indecision on his face. Does he want tea? Does he want to walk? It doesn't take him long to decide. He knows of only one way to sort out his thoughts, and he needs to do that desperately right now. He grabs his cloak off the hook next to the door and slips into the moonlight, closing the door quietly behind him. It's not long before he's arrived at his thinking place, the small grove next to the field that's housed many family Quidditch matches. Now, it's dark and empty, and Ron can't help but think bitterly of how fitting that is. He shakes his head even as he settles himself on the ground, his back against a tree. He doesn't want to be bitter. He doesn't want to be angry. He just wants...

But his reverie is interrupted by a cough, and he jumps a foot in the air, his heartbeat only slowing when he turns and sees Ginny's long red hair a few feet away as she sits in an identical position under another tree.

"Gin?" Ron asks uncertainly. "What - what are _you _doing _here_?"

Ginny scowls at him. "I could ask you the same question," she says stiffly. Ron starts to bristle.

"I've always come here," he says defensively. "For years. This is - this is _my _place."

Ginny shakes her head in disbelief. "No way," she states firmly. "_I've _been coming here for years."

Ron looks at her skeptically. "I'm older," he points out, but Ginny rolls her eyes.

"Only by a year," she mumbles. The animosity, though, is gone, and now they're looking at each other with a growing understanding.

"Really?" Ron asks after a pause. "You, too?"

She nods. "Whenever things got too crazy, I'd come out here to try to get everything back in perspective. It just - it made more sense from here."

He shakes his head slowly in disbelief. "That's exactly it," he says. "I just - I didn't know you knew about it, too."

Ginny tries to smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Mmhmm," she says. Her voice is tired, but Ron suddenly realizes that if she's out here now, she can't sleep either. They look at each other across the small expanse that separates their trees, and after a moment, Ron scrambles to his feet and joins Ginny under hers. He's not sure what's possessed him to do this, but she doesn't argue, and they stare in companionable silence at the darkened garden.

"Remember all those Quidditch games?" she asks suddenly. Her voice is slightly hoarser than usual, but that could just be the night air. Ron nods.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "They hardly ever let me play. They let _you_ play, though," he mutters, "all the time." He shakes his head. "I would just sit here, waiting, and then all of a sudden one day, there _you_ were, up there with them, and here _I _was, still sitting on the grass."

To his surprise, Ginny doesn't respond, doesn't say smugly _that's because I'm better_... doesn't, in short, do anything he expects, and he turns to look at her. Her freckles are vivid in her sudden pallor, and he starts in surprise, but Ginny shakes her head when he starts to speak.

"No," she says, and now the strain in her voice can't be explained away by the air. It doesn't need to be. Because as she says, "Fr - Fred was the first one to t-take me up on the b-broom," her voice clogs and she shakes her hair in front of her face, trying to hide the tears.

Ron swallows hard. Seeing his brothers and his parents crying at the funeral was one thing. It was the _funeral, _for Merlin's sake. And they - they weren't Ginny. Ginny's the one he can count on to stay strong, to not need him.

But... here they are. And it's only them. He hears Hermione's voice in his head, and he knows doesn't have a choice. Slowly, he reaches over and puts his arm across Ginny's shoulders. She doesn't shake him off, nor does she lean in, but he leaves it there as he tries desperately to think of something to say. He's not so sure he trusts his own voice right now, but he has to try.

"He thought you were brilliant at it right from the start. The first time he let _me_ play, he aimed the bludger right at me because he was afraid I'd ruin his chances of winning." Ron's voice is much deeper than it usually is, and he winces, knowing Ginny can hear that. He tries to smile at the memory, but he can't seem to manage it. He lets out a shaky breath. "I didn't get hurt, though. Well, not badly. Just dazed. Came out of the game and Mum made him apologize. He didn't want to..." He trails off, and he swallows again. The lump in his throat is growing, and he feels like he's choking. He tries for more deep breaths and is about to let go of Ginny, to just leave her be (and if he's honest with himself, it's because he wants to be left alone, too), but all of a sudden, she's turning to face him head on.

Her face is streaked with the tears she never lets anyone see, and her eyes are red and watery, and that's what breaks him. He feels the tears welling up in his own eyes, and before he even knows how it's happened, they've got their arms around each other. It's a long time before either of them is calm enough to let go.


	5. Too Much Too Soon

Percy wakes with a start. For a minute, he thinks George must have cried out in his sleep and woken him (it wouldn't be the first time that happened), but no... George is actually still sleeping for a change, and Percy sighs with relief. He hates to think this way, but it's harder when George is awake. He feels like he has to be upbeat and positive, when really, that's the last thing he is right now. Whatever the opposite of upbeat and positive are... well ... that's Percy.

He twists his arm to see his watch and notes that it's already morning. It's past 8, and that means he can go downstairs without being afraid of finding someone breaking down in the privacy of the darkened kitchen. (It's happened too many times already, and he's been horrible at handling it every time. He even tried to slip back out of the room when it was George, once, but he banged into a chair, and that just made things worse.)

Silently, practically holding his breath, he slips out of his camp bed and eases the door open. It's best for George if he sleeps as much as possible. At least that's what Percy's been telling himself. He's not sure if that's actually true, but he thinks there must be something to it.

He's surprised to find himself alone in the kitchen when he wanders in, and he goes to the stove to pour himself a cup of tea from the ever-present pot brewing on the stove. There's some evidence that there's been breakfast in here fairly recently, but Molly is no longer insisting that everyone eat together every morning... Percy lowers his cup as his stomach twists unpleasantly. She's not been acting very much like Mum at all, and he wishes that would change. It's one of the things he'd missed, and now that he's back, it's not even like he can have it now. He feels supremely selfish, but he can't help it. Unable to look at the unfamiliar sight of a deserted Weasley kitchen any longer, he finds his way into the living room, hoping to find a copy of the Prophet to read while he sips his tea.

But Charlie already has it. He's the only one in the room when Percy walks in, and even though Percy really wouldn't mind some company, he stops short when he sees his older brother. Charlie looks up at the noise and gives a non-committal nod, which Percy takes to mean he's not entirely unwelcome. It's the best he can ask for. Trying to repress a sigh, he sinks onto the couch and, clearing his throat, says, "Mind if I have a section?"

Charlie shakes his head and hands Percy a few pages of the paper. For a few minutes, the two sit in silence as they read and sip their tea. The silence is broken, though, when Charlie slaps the paper onto the cushion between them with a grunt that causes Percy to look up with a start.

"What is it?" he asks. But Charlie's face is uncharacteristically white, and he just shakes his head. He gestures at the article he's just been reading, but he's not looking at Percy at all. Percy picks up the paper gingerly and looks where he's indicated - and his heart sinks. Because it's about the ministry's memorial, the first one he knows they're all going to have to attend as a Family Who Lost Someone in the Battle of Hogwarts.

Percy sighs and carefully places the paper back on the couch, hoping Charlie won't notice that his hand is trembling. He's not sure what to say. If he thinks about it, he realizes that he's barely talked to Charlie since they've all been back from Hogwarts. Well, to be fair, Charlie's barely talked to anyone. Percy _has_ noticed that much in spite of his efforts not to notice anything at all.

It doesn't seem to Percy, though, that _he_ would ever be the person Charlie would want to talk to _anyway_. None of them would choose him first ... he swallows hard and tries to turn his attention back to the newspaper. He doesn't want to think about that. But when he looks at the article, he wonders what on earth he was thinking, reading something about Quidditch. He's not really sure... and now that he thinks about it, he barely understands a word of it, but he knows it's better than sitting here and trying to talk to his taciturn older brother.

But ... Charlie hasn't picked up the paper again, and now he's leaned his head back; his eyes are closed, and his face is whiter than ever. Percy swallows again and hoarsely says, "Charlie?"

Charlie's eyes twitch under the closed lids, but he doesn't open them. He does sigh, though, and Percy takes that as an acknowledgment.

"We're going to have to go to that memorial," he continues quietly. Charlie gives a brief nod, and now Percy stops and sighs.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Of course you knew that. _You've_ been around." So stupid. Percy sinks even further into the couch. He's really just so stupid. _Charlie's _not the one who deliberately kept himself away for so long. If anyone needs to be reminded of what Weasleys do, it's Percy, not Charlie. But before he can wade further into this pool of self pity, he's aware of Charlie opening his eyes and turning to him in what Percy can only call disbelief.

"_I've _been _around_?" he repeats, and the sarcasm just drips from his voice. He shakes his head in disgust and rolls his eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, Perce, I actually have _not _been around. Not for years."

_In case you haven't noticed _... the words ring in Percy's ears, and before he even realizes what he's saying, he blurts, "How _would_ I have noticed, Charlie? I wasn't _here_, remember?"

He wishes he hasn't said that. Because this is when Charlie's eyes will widen in sympathy, and he'll get that speech about how it doesn't matter, about how he came back, about how he was always their brother.

But Charlie is glowering at him, and Percy blinks in surprise.

"Percy, _I wasn't either._" He doesn't say anymore. He can't. His throat is closing as the full force of words he's never said aloud to anyone hit him. He refuses to look at Percy even though he knows his younger brother is now staring at him, and even out of the corner of his eye, he can see the slowly dawning look of comprehension on Percy's face. But he doesn't want him to understand. He doesn't _care _if he understands. He just wants to get out of this room and away from this conversation. But he can't seem to get off the couch.

Percy spreads his hands on his knees and studies them. He knows that Charlie would probably prefer that he leave right now and not say anything more, but he can hear his mother's voice in his head, pleading with him to talk to Charlie, to make him see reason. He does need to see reason, and for some reason, Percy's the first one in a position to make that happen. He sighs. He has to try.

"Charlie," he starts, slowly. He's almost ready for Charlie to snap at him, to tell him he doesn't want to hear it, but Charlie's exhausted, and he doesn't trust his voice, so he just sits, silently. Somewhat unnerved, Percy continues. "It's not the same," he says simply. "You never told everyone that what they were doing was wrong, that you were ashamed of them, that they weren't your family. You took a job somewhere else. People do that. It doesn't mean they're abandoning their families. What I did... that was abandonment. What you did was normal. You don't have anything to feel guilty about, Charlie. There's enough guilt to go around here. You don't deserve any of it."

But Charlie shakes his head. He gives a little hard cough, and his voice sounds almost normal to himself when he says "No, maybe it wasn't abandonment, but you came back in time. You were there when Fr - when Fred," but now his voice is getting tight again, and he lapses back into silence. Silence is safer.

Percy wishes he could stay silent, but his voice is shaking terribly when he forces himself to say, "I _was_ there. And I couldn't do anything to stop that wall from falling. I know you think you might've been able to. Maybe you could. Maybe anyone else could. But I couldn't."

Now the guilt for what he's just done to _this_ brother stabs at Charlie so painfully that he forces himself to look right at Percy and speak when he'd rather be doing the complete opposite. "No, Percy. I didn't mean it that way. I know you couldn't have saved him. Nobody could. You know that, too. I just meant that at least you got to speak to him again. I can't - I can't remember the last time I..."

But he can't do this anymore. He's managed to avoid any conversation that might get too hard, and this - this is the most impossible one he could have ever imagined, and here he is, sitting on the couch with Percy, and there's no escape in sight. He knows he _could _just get up and leave the room, but Percy's whole body is shaking now, and he can't leave him alone like this.

"Perce," he whispers because he doesn't trust his voice anymore, "Perce, I'm sorry..."

But Percy's past the point of hearing anything anymore. He's hunched over and buried his face in his hands, and he refuses to look at Charlie. He did know what Charlie meant, but it just reminded him of what he'd failed at spectacularly - protecting his little brother - and now he's seeing it all over again, and it's just too much, and he wonders if it will ever not be too much.

He's perfectly willing to sit there like that until Charlie leaves, but then he hears a completely unfamiliar noise, and he raises his head instinctively even though he swore he wouldn't. And then he wishes he hadn't because Charlie is staring at him, and his face is twisting in a way Percy can't ever remember seeing before.

Percy whispers, "Charlie..." and then Charlie is the one hunching forward, only he's not quiet like Percy had been. His shoulders are trembling, and he's choking on the sobs he's somehow managed to contain until precisely this moment. After a moment of hesitation, Percy puts his hand on his shoulder and squeezes hard. When Charlie doesn't shake him off, he leaves it there. He still feels terrible, but somehow... it also feels like progress.


	6. When Will Someone Hear

_**A/N: Not abandoning this! I was away last week. Next update to come sooner rather than later most likely since I'm seeing the movie again tomorrow. : ) Inspiration will return immediately, I'm sure.**_

Bill sighs and looks longingly at the small but comfortably appointed living room in Shell Cottage. This is home, yes... but he knows he needs to go to that other home. The Burrow. The place that didn't used to hold such dread for him. He wishes it didn't now. But every time he thinks about going back there these days, he feels a pit in his stomach. The only thing that helps is the reassuring pressure of Fleur's hand in his. He knows she understands how hard this is for him. He's starting to think she might be the only one who does.

But he knows this is no one's fault but his. He's become so epically good at hiding his feelings from his family that no one else_ could _possibly know how badly he's taking this. But they shouldn't have to know. He's the eldest. It's his responsibility to look out for the others. It always has been. No one has to look out for him. He has Fleur. He'll be fine. He just... he just has to make it through another day.

When they get to the Burrow, Fleur notices with a pang how Bill has to deliberately square his shoulders before he walks inside. She, too, wonders what they will see when they walk through the door. Over the past few days, they've seen all sorts of things when they've walked in, and none of them have been pleasant. And today is no exception.

Molly is standing over the sink, her wand trembling in her hand as she attempts to clean up after an obvious poor attempt at lunch. There is just too much food left over for a Weasley meal, but Fleur knows that her mother-in-law's shoulders aren't shaking because of the lack of interest in her cooking. No, her shoulders are in a perpetual state of motion these days, much to her children's dismay because none of them knows how to deal with this version of Molly. Ironically, they're much calmer when she's her usual frenetic self.

Bill swallows with a click and then, taking a deep breath, walks over and wraps his arms around his mother, squeezing her tightly, ignoring the tears that are dropping into the soapy water.

"Morning, Mum," he says, straining to keep his voice level and just managing to succeed. "Where is everyone? Lunch finished?"

Molly nods and sighs. "Yes, dear. Just cleaning up." Her voice shakes, but she's managing to talk, and that helps Bill step away and smooth down his ponytail.

He's looking anywhere but at her reddened eyes as he mutters something about going into the other room to see the others. As he stumbles through the door, Molly catches Fleur's eyes, and she sighs.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. Gesturing vaguely to her face, she mumbles, "I wish I didn't make this harder for him..." But Fleur crosses the room to her mother-in-law and shakes her head sharply.

"No," she says firmly. "Stop 'zat. Eet ees not your fault zat zees is 'ard for Bill. Eet would be 'ard whether he saw you just now or not."

After a moment of silence, Molly nods. "It's true," she muses. A thought seems to occur to her, and she says, "Maybe if he talked to ..." But she trails off, and Fleur does not know what she was about to say.

The living room is surprisingly empty when Bill wanders in, and he walks the length of it and straight out the other side. He doesn't want to go back into the kitchen where his mother is still not herself, but there are too many things in this room that he might see that he does not want to. He notices that the door to the shed is ajar, and he heads in that direction. Poking his head inside, he calls "hello?" hesitantly. It's the first time he's been out here in ages, and he feels himself relaxing slightly when he hears his father's voice shout "hello" from somewhere deep in the recesses. Bill walks in and closes the door, smiling faintly at the motorbike that Arthur is still, inexplicably, tinkering with. It's never going to fly again; everyone's agreed on that, but Arthur can't seem to stop trying to figure it all out.

When his father emerges, blinking and then smiling at his eldest son, Bill actually finds himself smiling back before his face falls back into its recent more accustomed scowl.

"What are you doing out here, Dad?" he asks, and Arthur motions toward the bike, sheepishly ducking his head.

"Don't tell your Mum. It's just an easy way to pass the time these days. Helps to keep my hands busy." He shrugs even as he's drawn back to the motor. He peers into it, and Bill leans again the cabinet behind him, crossing his arms and watching his father, wondering as he always does at his equanimity. He wishes his own were that natural. He feels like he has to fight everyday to even seem remotely as calm as Arthur always does.

Well... no. Not always. Bill suddenly finds himself staring at the floor and blinking as he remembers the funeral again. He keeps remembering the funeral, as much as he wishes he could forget, and he remembers seeing his father cry for the first time he could ever remember.

Arthur isn't oblivious to the change in Bill's breathing, but he continues to stare down into the engine even as he says quietly, "You and Fleur are good to come as often as you do. It helps your mum to have as many of you here as she can everyday."

It would be an innocent statement. Arthur surely means it that way. But all Bill hears is "_since she can never have __**everyone**__ here again_," and his eyes are burning much as they do when he tries to fall asleep every night. But it's safer then because the only person there is Fleur, and she's the only one he doesn't have to be brave for. He can't do this now. He can't do this to his father. He shakes his head, hardly realizing he's doing it, until Arthur tentatively says, "Bill?"

Bill knows he's inches away from a full-on crying jag, and nothing could terrify him more. He closes his eyes against the hot wetness, his mouth screwing up tightly to keep anything from getting out. If he just holds himself perfectly still...

But he hadn't banked on Arthur to realize just what was happening, and suddenly, he feels his father's hand on his shoulder, and something inside Bill breaks. He covers his face with his hands, and then Arthur's hand is on his elbow, guiding him to the bench. He collapses onto it and hunches over, trying not to make a sound and failing miserably. He wants to not think that the hoarse sobs are emanating from him, but he's helpless to stop them for a long time. When they've finally spent themselves, he lets out a deep breath but stays curled into himself, not wanting to look up and see the pity in his father's eyes.

But Arthur is sitting beside him, and Bill knows that he's waiting for him to look up, and he finds himself doing it almost against his will, his face burning. But there is no pity there. His father is looking at him with complete understanding, which only brings fresh tears to Bill's eyes. He tries to blink them away, but one slips down anyway, and he flushes furiously as he brushes it away.

"What?" he asks, hating how his voice breaks, hating how weak he sounds. This is _not _what's supposed to happen. He's the strong one. He's supposed to protect them all from this and help them through _their_ tears. None of them is supposed to have to help _him_.

Arthur is waiting for Bill to be calm enough that he'll hear what he has to say, and when he's finally convinced that he's got enough of his attention, he says, "Bill, you needed this. Don't shake your head. You did. I know you want to help your brothers and sister. I know you think you should be strong enough to not need anyone else's help. But that's not true. That's just a job you've given yourself, and it's not one anyone else would give you. We may be used to you doing it, but that doesn't mean you have to. It's not fair to you, Bill. Fred was your brother, too."

_Why is it always the use of past tense that does him in more effectively than anything else?_ Bill wonders almost philosophically even while knowing he's still dangerously close to tears. But he manages to nod as he chokes out, "I know." It's all he can say right now, but at least he feels like he's not entirely gone if he can manage that.

Arthur nods, too. "You need to let the others help you, too. You're not doing anyone any favors by taking all of this on yourself. You're only hurting yourself more, and I won't let you do that. You might be the oldest, Bill, but I'm your father. You can let me shoulder some of it as well. We can share the weight, all right?"

Bill nods. He has to. A lump has formed in his throat and lodged there, and he can't speak anymore. He closes his eyes again. Arthur is right. They can share it, and right now, Bill can't think of a more welcome proposition. He doesn't know why he suddenly feels so completely out of control, but he does know that this isn't as temporary as he sorely wishes it were. He lets out a shuddering breath and thinks he might be able to wrest himself back under control when Arthur's arm is suddenly encircling him.

It's the first time a member of his family has dared to embrace him since the funeral. Hardly realizing what he's doing, he turns into his father's shoulder, hiding his face in the familiar, comforting warmth, even as his tears seep into the material. Arthur's own eyes are brimming, but he simply tightens his hold on his son. He'd known Bill would need this sooner or later, but he hadn't expected him to break quite so hard.


	7. When There Was Something Wrong With You

_Disclaimer: I will never own Harry Potter._

_A/N: It has literally been years since I've updated this, but I'm reading Fangirl, by Rainbow Rowell right now, and it's made me miss fan fiction more than I had in a while. If anyone is still reading this, I hope you enjoy. It's a tough one._

If anyone needs to find George, they go to the living room. None of his siblings consciously realize this at first, but then, as they slowly start to acknowledge each other's presence whenever one of them is sitting with George, it becomes obvious what isn't happening. George isn't going up to his room.

Because it _isn't_ HIS room. If anyone had asked him why he was never up there - well, no. No one is about to do that because everyone knows the answer. It's their room, and none of them can bear the thought of it just being George's now. Especially George.

So Molly and Arthur turn a blind eye to George's pillow and blanket stuffed next to the worn out couch in the mornings. And Bill and Charlie - and even Percy and Ron - are becoming unsurprised to find George's clothing appearing in their rooms, at the foot of their beds, when they come out of the shower. But the one person who hasn't seemed to realize that George refuses to set foot in there is his sister. For some reason he hasn't brought himself to think about, George doesn't want Ginny to know he's been avoiding his - their - his room.

He avoids eye contact with Ginny, too, more than any of the others. And it's not like he's so gung-ho for a conversation with any of his brothers, but they corner him sometimes when he's least expecting it, and he just sort of gives in. He doesn't give them much more than one-syllable responses, but he sits there while they talk or try to and hopes it at least makes them feel better. But Ginny... well, she scares him. On the few occasions when it's seemed like she's about to make an effort, he quickly finds somewhere else he needs to be.

And then one day, he's in the shower, and he hears a door creak. It's a sound that's as familiar to him as Fred's voice - and here, the tears well up and splash down with the shower water, which is the only time he doesn't try to hold them back because no one can see - but he swallows them again just as quickly because he knows he needs to get out of the shower and find out who the HELL has gone in there without permission.

He's wearing shorts and a threadbare t-shirt when he stops just short in the doorway - and feels as if the wind has been knocked clean out of him. Because it's not Mum - not that he thought it would be - for all of her maniacal cleaning tendencies, she's always been more than happy to leave this well enough alone. It's not Percy or Bill, trying to stuff some of his shirts or knickers back in his own drawers. It's Ginny. And she's not there to help him. She's standing in the middle of the floor, her eyes fixed on Fred's bed, and she's - is she shaking?

George isn't sure because, suddenly, he is. He can't stand there anymore; he can't watch this. He turns to go, but then he hears her. She's heard him, too, and she's turned and is saying "George." It's all she says, but her voice sounds nothing like her own. It sounds broken and fragile and not like he ever thought Ginny would sound. And that is the only sound that could make him turn back. But he still can't go in there. He can't seem to move his foot anywhere near that threshold.

Ginny stares at him, wondering, he knows, why he's stuck there on the landing, and he shakes his head more and more violently as he somehow manages to stutter, "I - I _can't_," but she doesn't give in easily EVER, and today isn't going to be a first.

He hardly knows what she's doing when she steps toward him, but when her hand closes around his wrist, he seizes with panic and fear and pulls back.

"N-no. G-Ginny, I c-can't. D-don't!" He's starting to gasp for air, but she's relentless as she tries to drag him forward. Against his will, and because he can't seem to fight anymore, he realizes he's partway into the room. And that's when he collapses into a heap on the floor just inside the door.

He curls into a ball, right there, and she sinks down beside him, whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," but he doesn't hear her. He can't hear anything over the empty roaring of the room that used to be filled with jokes and laughter but now just contains emptiness. Memories, yeah - but memories are rubbish when they're all you've got left. He cradles his head in his arms, unable to look at her, his little sister who has never been this cruel before, this unfeeling, and he tries to slow his breathing, but all he can think is that he's in the room where Fred will never go again, and instead of calming down, he feels the lump in his throat swell and dissolve for the second time that hour, and his shoulders start shaking.

Ginny's arms wrap around him then, and he can't even throw her off. She rocks him slowly like she did that time he and Katie had broken up, when he thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to him, but this time, instead of whispering to him about all the hexes she's going to cast, she's whispering "I love you. And I love Fred. I will always love both of you. And I will always be able to tell you apart." Her voice breaks on "apart," and that's when he looks up.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then he reaches to her, and she crawls to him, her own tears cascading down her cheeks. They hold each other, and she says, "I'm - I'm sorry I came in here. I just - I just wanted..." She trails off, but then she feels George nod.

"I know," he says gruffly, one arm around even as he swipes at his eyes with his other hand. "I was afraid to see if I could still feel him here because - what if - what if I couldn't?" He looks at her then, his eyes full. "I'm not - I'm still not sure I can."

Ginny closes her eyes and puts her arms around George. She's not sure she can either, but she's willing to sit there long enough until they do.


End file.
